Francesca Doyle
by Dumbest Genius I Know
Summary: They see a criminal. Bridget sees home. An exploration of Franky Doyle and continuation of the S5 finale.
1. Chapter 1

_She threw a pan of boiling oil in somebody's face. She is a drug dealer and a violent delinquent._

And then she had smiled.

 _You know plenty of people have tried to help Franky. All have failed._

And then she had torn herself apart in the corner of Bridget's office. Arms wrapped across her own chest, black eye makeup smudging down her cheeks, sliding down the door to the ground, eyes full of fury and sadness and desperation. She'd never said the words but Bridget had heard her anyway. **Help me.**

 _Franky Doyle you are under arrest for the murder of Mike Pennesi. Gun. DNA. Criminal. Recidivism. Maybe this is where I belong. You are formally charged with the murder of Iman Farah._

And it takes all of Bridget's strength to just close her eyes and keep breathing. They didn't know Franky. They couldn't. If they did- _God._

They say _criminal_ and Bridget feels a soft, strong hand slide up the back of her neck to pull her closer after a long day.

They say _murderer_ and Bridget sees layered brown hair flying, the flash of a smile with a tongue poking out in Bridget's direction. Tess's excited squeal as she careens down a slide into Franky's waiting arms.

They say _recidivism rates_ and she knows the statistics off by heart, but she hears the weighty thump of Franky's laptop case hitting her kitchen bench, and sees the brunette still in her work clothes after dark, trying to come up with a solution for some angry kid just like her.

They say _life in prison_ and she thinks, _I'll wait._

And Bridget Westfall is almost incomparable. Her emotional intelligence, calm strength and intellectual capacity have meant that her whole life has been something in which she has always maintained control.

Things didn't just happen to Bridget Westfall. She either allowed them or she didn't. Her choice.

Franky Doyle had happened to her though. With her grin brighter than a set of oncoming headlights, her tongue sharp like needles, and her hands that cradled Bridget's body like they were touching sacred ground.

Bridget hadn't had a choice in this.

She knew the science behind it all. Knew the theory. Knew that frustration, anger and complete fear needed to take over for Franky to even survive back in prison. And still her brain hadn't been able to reconcile the woman that had stood in front of her, buzzing with barely contained fury, with the one who would cook dinner and settle on the couch with one hand always touching some part of Bridget.

 _Well come on then, let's fuck. Nah don't worry I can handle it. I'm trying to get you off like a fucking crim._

It had been a performance. She knew. An effort to get Bridget to leave her. An homage to the Franky Doyle that **could've been**. The one she'd once thought she had to be to survive. The one Bridget knew, _hoped_ , didn't exist.

And so Bridget had prayed, to nothing and no one, that _her_ version, her Franky, still existed. And maybe she did, ' _I just wanna hold ya.'_ But maybe she didn't, ' _no fuck off.'_

And Bridget had felt herself slipping. In her efforts to hold on so desperately to someone else, she had woken up one day and realised she no longer recognised herself. And it was the hardest thing she'd ever done, walk out of that door.

 _Don't leave me. Just give me some time. Don't give up on us._

And she had walked away with three words ringing in her ears. _**We're not done.**_

No. They could never be.

But she needed to live her life too.

So she takes a job in private practice. Not high-end clientele, although she is sure that if she'd wanted to listen to the banal problems of business class Melbourne, she would've had no troubles finding work.

This is better. Here she can help people, real people, with no other options. Some nights, when she's honest with herself, she can admit she misses corrections. But she couldn't do it. Not now. Not expecting to see one face around every corner.

So here she is. Leaving work in the dark on a Tuesday night, waving goodbye to Dave and twisting her keys in her fingers, looking straight ahead as she steps off the curb.

And there **she** is.

It's dark, and she's standing in the shadows cast by a harsh street lamp, under a bridge, and a train rattles past behind her, blending with the lights of the city. She smiles and she holds her hands out by her sides, shrugging her shoulders slightly, something she does – _did -_ often, only now it is more pronounced.

And it's ridiculous, and stupid but the first thing that Bridget thinks is that she's never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.

Bridget is exultant, and full of wonder and bone crushing devastation all at once.

She has escaped. Just like she'd said she would. And she ran to Bridget. Just like she'd said she would. _I'll find a way for us to be together._

Franky smiles and it's like rain finally pouring down after the sky has been black for weeks.

Bridget takes a slow step forward, chest rising and falling deeply, not due to physical exertion.

'I love you! And I'll be back.'

She turns, and runs and Bridget is left standing in the street.

It has been over a week. Exactly eight days in fact, since Franky Doyle appeared in front of Bridget's work.

 _I'll be back._ She had said.

Only she hasn't.

And Bridget is equal parts relief and desperation.

She'd stood in front of her car that night long after Franky had disappeared, mouth slightly open, deep breaths moving her chest. Her hands had been shaking. It had taken a car driving in front of her, interrupting her line of sight, for her turn slowly and slide into her little Volkswagen. She doesn't remember the drive home.

She had arrived to darkness and three missed calls on her mobile. Vera. Hardly a surprise.

Even in her confusion she'd known what she had to do. What she would always do. As if that wasn't the most tragic part.

'Vera,' she had said, 'sorry to have missed you, I was finishing up with a late client. Just got home. Is it a wine night?' She had been shocked at the animation in her voice. Was scared at how convincingly she had slipped that last detail in, even though she hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since resigning.

'Wine night…no.' Vera had sounded confused, exhausted, and then without warning she had been hard, to the point, 'Have you seen her?'

Bridget had let Vera hear the background noise of her organising dinner, had thought it would seem more normal, 'I'm afraid you've lost me there, seen who?'

'Doyle. Franky.'

Bridget hadn't had to fake the panic in her voice when she'd asked, 'Vera what's happened?'

The line had been quiet for a moment, then, 'She's escaped. Through the garden project we think.'

And Bridget had closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, 'Jesus Christ.' Hearing it spoken out loud, from a voice she recognised had made it absolutely real, 'She hasn't come here. I…ended us, when I resigned, Vera. She won't try and see me.'

The line had been silent and Bridget's heart had almost thudded out of her chest.

A sigh on the other end, and then, 'Okay. Alright. Well I uh- I haven't told Channing, or anyone, um about your relationship, I just…had to make sure myself. And I didn't think you should have to hear it on the news.'

'Thank you, Vera. Thank you.' Bridget had never been more sincere.

The next thing she had done after hanging up the phone was go to the fruit bowl, fish out the spare key and tuck it back in the pot plant beside her back door. Franky had been the one to put it there. Bridget had never been in need of a spare key before her, but Franky was forever leaving her set somewhere.

' _Didn't need keys in prison Gidge.'_ She'd laughed after her third time prying open the laundry window.

When Franky…no longer needed her keys, Bridget had brought the spare one back in. Safer. Now she can't decide whether to leave every window and door in her house wide open with the lights blazing in invitation, or keep the key inside and change the locks for good measure.

 _I'll be back._ She had said.

Bridget believed her. She has never wanted and simultaneously dreaded something so badly.

Bridget wasn't safe. Franky shouldn't go anywhere that there was even the slightest chance she could be found. Franky wasn't stupid. Bridget knew that she would recognise a trip to visit her as a major opportunity to be caught.

The part that terrified her was that she was fairly certain Franky would do it anyway.

 _We're not done._

And that's where Wednesday night found her. Lying on her back in their- no, **her** , bed, staring at the ceiling, brain ticking over.

She heard the noise. Wouldn't have if she had been sleeping, but that was something she hadn't done much of in the last eight days.

She sat up, tiptoed down the hall to her living room in the dark and then she just stood.

Because there she was.

It was dark, Bridget didn't even know what time it was, but moonlight filtered through the shuttered blinds, stripes of it falling across Franky's face. Bridget ached.

The back door behind Franky was closed now, but the room was colder than the rest of the house and Bridget was suddenly conscious that she was standing in her hallway wearing nothing but a singlet and underwear.

Franky's hands moved out from the sides of her body slightly, palms out. _Here I am._

All Bridget can do is keep standing in the hallway. Terrified that if she takes her eyes off Franky she will disappear. Terrified she won't.

'Gidget I can leave,' her voice is strong in the dark, Bridget wants to close her eyes and soak in the sound of it.

'I didn't mean to drag you into any of this, I just…' she huffs, 'I just had to see ya.' Franky's arms move in front of her and Bridget can't see in the dark but she can imagine her fiddling with her fingers the way she does. Bridget can also hear the tiniest note of scared in the last part of that sentence.

Standing in her hallway, in her underwear, in the dark, Bridget has a choice to make.

But she doesn't really.

Because she has made this choice so consciously since first stepping foot into Wentworth that by now it's as easy as breathing.

She chooses Franky.

So Bridget smiles, it's watered down and impossible to see in the dark, but it's there, and exhaling shakily she is walking softly across her living room floor.

'I was already in it.'

And then one arm is around the back of Franky's shoulders and the other hand is half cupping her face in the dark, half sliding into her hair and Bridget's face is pressed so closely into her neck that the only thing she can breathe in is _her._

Franky had been reaching for her the second she'd started walking but for one whole second after Bridget's body is pressed into hers Franky is stiff; like despite wanting it desperately she'd never thought she'd **actually** get to hold Bridget. And then she deflates in Bridget's arms with a reverent, ' _Oh_ ,' moulding around her as though trying to press as much of their bodies together as possible.

Long fingered hands slide up Bridget's back, and then they're on either side of her face and Franky is pulling away the slightest bit to just look at her. Her fingers brush through Bridget's hair and her eyes follow her own movements as though to make sure she isn't dreaming.

Bridget's heart simultaneously breaks and soars as she brushes a tear from Franky's cheek with her thumb. Franky looks down into her eyes quickly, pupils moving all over her face in the dark. Bridget hums as she presses their foreheads together, and then finally she tilts her chin up a little, brushing her lips across the younger woman's. Franky exhales as though she doesn't need actual air, just Bridget, but still she straightens, placing herself just out of reach.

She shakes her head, quickly, sadly, her own fingers interlocking at the back of Bridget's waist. Bridget can't see in the dark but she knows the way that Franky acts when she's crying and she has to force herself to stay still.

Franky's voice shakes but is full of conviction when she does speak, 'Gidge…everything inside-'

Bridget brings one hand up to cup Franky's face, 'Later,' she breathes, desperately hoping that later will exist.

But Franky presses her lips together firmly, shaking her head, _no._

'You _have_ to know that I'm sorry. I couldn't have ya near me, anyone could've used you to get to me and I couldn't let anything happen to you because of me, I-'

'Shhh, baby, I know. I know.' Bridget's hands are on either side of Franky's face, steady, real.

And she does know. Not because she is brilliant at her job, but because she understands the sharp, strong, beautiful mind in front of her. Understands the complete panic that would've overtaken her at being back inside. Understands the rage and frustration she would've felt at being incarcerated for a crime she didn't commit. Franky had used her. There wasn't an excuse for it. Frank wouldn't try and give her one. She would only try and explain herself. The explanation was simple.

 _I fucking love you._

 _I love you too much to drag you down with me._

And so she had tried to kill two birds with one stone. Push Bridget away. Get. Out.

Bridget knew. And they would talk about it. They would. But not now.

'You're still all I think-'

And then Franky's mouth is on hers. Not demanding, just soft and strong. And Bridget knew she had been wrong eight days ago. The most beautiful thing she has ever seen is not Franky Doyle standing in the street with the lights of Melbourne behind her. It is Franky Doyle kissing her in her living room in the same clothes she has been wearing for eight days, with tears in her eyes and the white light of the moon illuminating her face.

'Oh baby,' Bridget breathes, eyes pressed closed, her forehead resting against Franky's. Because what else is there to say? _Stay?_ No. She's dreaming.

Bridget feels fingertips tracing her face and she opens her eyes to insistent honesty and the small, heartbreaking smile of someone trying to soak up every second of something they know will be taken from them.

'I love you.' Franky whispers, and for a second Bridget thinks of a prison library, _do you miss me?_

Her hands are around Franky's neck, in her hair, 'I love you too.'

And then, despite it all, they are smiling. Smiling in the way that people who know true sadness do, because this is the first time they've said it properly and out loud to each other. It shouldn't be this way. If things were different it would've been said after a hard day at work, Bridget wrapped in Franky's arms on the couch, the words whispered easily into her hairline, and she would've replied with a smile like the sun and a kiss that promised a lifetime.

Now, a lifetime isn't hers to give.

Bridget does the only thing left. She kisses her. A little harder. A little more desperate. A little more like trying to fit a lifetime into now.

Franky's fingers contract on her back, pulling her in. It's all hands in hair and on shoulders and running over backs. That was something about Franky. Something Bridget would never forget but almost had – the way her hands never stopped moving. Never rough or demanding. Just like she could never get enough, never be touching _enough_ of Bridget.

Tonight, her own hands are the same. She runs her palms down Franky's back, follows the dip in her spine, and then her hands are slipping into the back pockets of Franky's jeans, pulling them tighter together. Franky inhales sharply, pelvis rocking forward a little, involuntarily.

'Gidget,' she hisses.

Bridget bites at her lip a little. Not hard. Nothing compared to the way they've been before. But enough to reassure Franky that she knows what she's doing. And then she's walking them backwards slowly, hands still in Franky's back pockets, lips still soft and insistent on her mouth, wooden floor boards cold on her feet.

And they're in the door of **their** bedroom. Franky looks up quickly, appraising the room while wrapping her arms around Bridget and the sound she makes is not a whimper. Franky Doyle doesn't whimper. But it's the closest Bridget has ever heard her come to it. And Bridget presses her face closer into Franky's chest, because she knows what Franky has seen instantly. She has seen her things exactly the way she had left them. A bottle of perfume and her hairbrush on the dresser. A law text book on the bedside table. A flannel laid across the back of the chair in the corner.

And then Franky's lips are on hers again and she can narrow her entire focus down to this.

Franky moves down to press her lips against Bridget's neck, fingers tracing the gap on Bridget's stomach between her singlet and her underwear. Bridget shudders involuntarily. She moves back again, a little quicker this time, one finger in the loop of Franky's jeans, pulling her along, the other sliding the fly down.

One of Franky's hands is under Bridget's singlet, sliding slowly up her stomach, her other is pulling her own pants off. Bridget doesn't want to wait any longer, she's sliding her own singlet off over her head. She can hear Franky's heavy breathing, watches her eyes ghost over her body, and then Franky's lips are back on hers, one arm wrapped around behind her waist, the other gently sliding over Bridget's chest.

Bridget's knees hit the back of the bed and she pulls upward on Franky's top, and then lies back, allowing the brunette to crawl up her body.

Breath in Bridget's ear, the scrape of teeth along her neck, the softness of an open mouth right after. Bridget's own hands are frenzied, pulling Franky down so her weight rests on Bridget, cupping her rear, nails sliding gently up her back, one hand making a gentle fist in long dark hair, the other palming a breast through Franky's bra.

And through it all Bridget marvels at the softness of her. So much strength in her limbs, in her back, in _her_ and yet the skin that covers all of that is _soft_. Bridget runs her open palm over Franky's lotus tattoo. Feeling the small indents and raises that indicate burns, follows it all the way up to the underside of Franky's bra, and then it's gone, Franky having reached around behind herself to remove it. Trust.

Chests together, Bridget's skin is on fire, movements becoming more erratic. Her hands are in the back of Franky's underwear when one of Franky's thighs slips between her own legs, and she has arched her back and groaned instantly, chasing her, maintaining the contact. Franky's hand slips between them, a finger hooking in the side of Bridget's panties, eyes seeking out Bridget's, questioning.

'Oh god, off.'

She moans, and her own hands are pushing Franky's underwear down her legs too and then it's just them and their hands.

When Franky finally fills Bridget their eyes don't separate until the last minute, when Bridget's start to hover closed and Franky pulls their bodies together hard, a strong arm pulling Bridget into her own chest, knowing that when it's like this Bridget likes to be grounded by contact instead of lost in her own tangle of sheets.

And when Bridget flips them and Franky is panting her name she whispers, ' _I love you_ ,' right as Franky tumbles and she knows that the most magical sight in the world has to be Franky Doyle coming undone beneath her hands.

They lie twisted together in their bed for as long as they can afterwards. Franky whispering about where she has been so far. What she still has to do.

 _Go to Iman's find the photos. Find something._

Bridget just holds her. She wants to say _god baby please don't._ But she knows Franky is innocent. Knows it beyond the shadow of a doubt. And what do they say? If you love something set it free? Bridget has never despised a saying more in her life.

But she will do it.

And so when the times comes for Franky to slip out the back door she doesn't beg her to stay.

Instead she says, 'Come back to me.'

And that is not a sight that Francesca Doyle will ever forget. Gidget standing on their back step in her bathrobe, the cool grey of dawn on her body, the bold brilliance of first sun _just_ starting to strike her face, telling Franky to come back.

She knows that she will.

Or she'll die trying.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time, that the universe was made, just to be seen by my eyes.' – Saturn, Sleeping at Last._

An unreliable firework _._

That's what she was.

One that caught alight all by itself, filling the inky darkness with an alarming and unexpected burst of colour. One that that wouldn't go off even if you tried everything you could think of to force it.

Purple and gold. The kind that went straight up into the air with a tiny, disappointing pop of purple, only to explode out of darkness again in a shower of golden rain.

Watch yourself though.

Beautiful, yes. Dazzling, yes. But if you are caught standing too close when she explodes you might burn; scalded skin, irreparable damage. Or you might stand in the dark with golden droplets hailing down around you.

* * *

Risk.

Go to Iman's. Find the photos. Find something. Prove your innocence. Freedom. Freedom. _Go back to her_.

Sounds simple.

Right?

Wrong.

In the movies being caught involves a lot of flashing lights, sirens, the screech of multiple police cars, yelling and a lot of guns.

That is not the case.

There is only one police car. Two policemen. They are hopping out of their cars, guns drawn. She could outrun them. She looks around wildly, sweat glistening on her temples, brown hair escaping from its ponytail. She could.

The single siren screams in her ears, reverberating around and around in her skull like a pinball. She is stuck in the middle of the street, chest heaving, eyes rolling like a frightened horse. In front of her there is one police car and two drawn guns. Further in front of her, past the cops, just down the street, is Iman's house. **Is her freedom**.

She closes her eyes for what feels like an age but in reality, it is less than one second. One second. That is how long it takes her to come to terms with what she has always known.

 _She would rather bleed out in the street than get put away again._

The mouths of the policemen are moving. She cannot hear them. All she hears is that fucking siren. All she sees is that house at the end of the street.

If she can just fucking get there. If she can-

She puts her hands in the air, palms open, fingers stretched out for just a second – she has nothing. And then she is running. Sprinting. Towards the guns that are pointed at her chest. And wouldn't that be ironic? If she got shot trying to prove that she did not shoot someone else.

She is level with the cruiser now, the red and blue lights just starting to creep into her peripheral vision rather than immediately in front of her. And maybe by some miracle, she will make it. Maybe she-

And then she is thrown to the ground.

Cheek pressed into bitumen and she can feel the burn that means skin has been torn from her forearms. The weight of a policeman on top of her. As her arms are being pulled behind her she does not hear the policeman begin his spiel, ' _Franky Doyle you are under arrest for-'_

Instead she lies on her stomach on the road, siren loud in her ears, neck craning, eyes transfixed on Iman's house.

 _She can see it._

'I didn't do it,' she says so calmly, evenly that you would think she was sitting in an office answering a simple question instead of lying in the street answering for murder. Answering for her life.

Dragged roughly to her feet and turned around she loses sight of Iman's house. Blue and red are bright in her eyes. A cop on either side of her, holding each arm and she raises her face to the sky as she walks. She breathes in deep and takes it all in. The world.

She has five more steps before she is pushed into the vehicle. She sees it all. She sees it the way it could've been. Sees herself at her own desk in legal relief. Sees Tess running out of school and diving into her shitty little car. Sees her own house. Sees herself smiling, laughing. Sees a blonde woman standing on the edge of her back step in nothing but a robe, eyes on fire with the bright orange of dawn, whispering, 'Come back to me.'

And then she is in the backseat of a police car and she feels nothing.

No. The movies are wrong.

All there is to being caught is a soul crushing weight that settles deep within her chest.

* * *

She was never one to go down easily.

She pokes holes in their case as best she can. Furiously refuses to change her plea to guilty, even for a reduced sentence, because she did not fucking do it.

But all of this is like poking air holes into a box in a place where oxygen doesn't exist.

She knows that it is coming, and she feels despair fill her up like it is trying to drown her. It is an oil, thick, viscous and inescapable.

When the courthouse goes silent and her sentence rings out though, all she is is numb.

 _Francesca Doyle you are sentenced to 40 years without parole for the murders of Mike Penisi and Iman Farah._

She stares at her wrists as if they aren't a part of her own body when the cold metal handcuffs click shut.

Her face does not change an inch from the moment she hears this conviction to the moment she steps inside her cell. She had vaguely recognised the shapes of people, lined up, waiting for her when she was escorted back to her unit but she had not even made eye contact.

Instead she closes the door behind her quietly and she folds her civilian clothes, sits them carefully on the end of her bed, and she pulls on the teal.

She looks at herself in the mirror. Teal tracksuit, teal singlet. Tattoos. She studies the reflection of her left arm. The phoenix adorning her white skin like some kind of victory.

She will have to do something about that.

And there it is.

Her anger had never been cold and calculating. It had always been immediate, violent and terrible. A bushfire on the driest of summer days.

Oil and fire are a dangerous combination.

The _second_ that she lets herself feel it all she is alight with the rage of injustice. She has trashed her cell before but this is different. This is destruction.

Everything that falls beneath her hands is reduced to nothing. The kite on the wall becomes trampled underfoot. Her case file notes float in shreds in the air around her. She tears her curtains from the wall as if they are the only thing separating her from the outside. And when everything she owns is lying in pieces at her feet, she starts on the walls. She is not stupid enough to believe that she can ruin those too, but the burning sting and ache of bone as her fist meets brick is better than nothing.

Blood runs down her hands and is spattered across the wall when her cell door flies open and arms wrap around her from behind.

'No Franky, Franky, **please** , please don't.'

Boomer.

And Franky pushes down, struggles against the arms that hold her and she feels Boomer's arms tighten around her, face pressing into the space between Franky's neck and her shoulder.

'Stop Franky. Franky, please.' Dimly something in Franky registers that it sounds as though Boomer is crying.

She pushes harder. Bloodied and broken hands screaming in protest. She loves it.

Eventually she shoves away, stumbling forward, mouth in a grim line. She stands in the middle of her cell, shaking finger jabbing the air in front of her face harshly when Boomer makes as though to come to her.

Boomer's face is red, screwed up with tears and she moves forwards and backwards indecisively, cannot look anywhere else but Franky's bloody and trembling finger in the air in front of her. But it is too much for her, flapping her arms in frustration she steps forwards, hands patting at Franky's face, her hair, in an attempt to soothe her.

Every cell in Franky's body trembles with fury, desperation, devastation, but she stands in the middle of what used to look like her cell, red and purple hands by her sides, and she closes her eyes. One tear slipping down her cheek.

Boomer continues to pat at her.

'Please Franky, please,' she whispers.

* * *

She is slotted for three weeks. Both for escaping and then for trashing her cell.

It is Miss Bennet that eventually comes to collect her, Channing nowhere in sight, and Franky knows that if had been left to him she would've been left to rot for a lot longer.

She squares off in the electrically lit doorway of her slot unit, 'Miss Bennet?'

Vera turns, surprised that Franky is not immediately behind her, 'Franky?'

And Franky hears the use of her first name, tries to steel herself against the gratitude that slips through but doesn't quite manage.

'Will I be allowed to collect a visitor's request form?'

One hand on her hip, the other coming up to rub her forehead Vera scrunches her face, sighing.

'You did escape prison you realise?' She sighs again, a nod that is halfway between curt and concession, 'I'll try.'

* * *

Everything seems heightened. The scrape of other inmate's chairs. The laughs, snippets of other conversations. The air conditioner blowing on her bare arms. The ache she feels in the centre of her chest. The slight grooves in the plastic coating of the table at which she sits.

Her eyes do not leave the doorway. She cannot afford to miss even a millisecond of this.

And when she spots movement on the other side of that door she is on her feet. Not moving, just standing. For once in her life she in not thinking about anything else. A feeling she had only experienced with –

 _There._

Bridget slips through the door and hesitates for the briefest of moments as she scans the room until she finds what she is looking for.

And Franky will take this moment. Bridget unaware, her hair a little longer than the last time she'd seen her, top strands even with her jaw now in a stylish bob. Jacket, jeans, boots, she was all there.

And then Bridget finds her, and she's walking quickly, efficiently and she stops exactly two steps in front of Franky, one hand on the back of the chair she will sit in, the other across her stomach.

They stand there a little longer than normal, both wanting to pull the other in, both recognising this as impossible.

And Bridget pulls her chair out and slides in easily, but there is something about the way she holds Franky's gaze, the look on her face, and the high angle at which she holds her head that makes Franky tear up a little.

 _Bridget knows exactly why she is here._

It is a risk, but before she knows it Franky is scooting her chair a little closer to Bridget and a little further under the table, her long fingers reaching out to grasp Bridget's waiting hand.

They just stare at each other for a while. Both very effective communicators. Both articulate women. Both finding that there are, in fact, not words for this.

Bridget runs a finger underneath one of her eyes gently, smiling softly in a sort of frustration.

'I hired that investigator,' her voice comes out softly, but strong, one of Franky's favourite paradoxes within this woman, 'and we proved that Iman and Penisi knew each other, took that to the police. But they- they couldn't find anything at her place.'

Bridget's lips are pursed together and she shakes her head quickly, just once, in an effort to hold it together.

And Franky is already broken but she breaks again witnessing this. Imagining Bridget trying to come to terms with it on her own.

Her other hand slides underneath the table, encasing their joined hands and squeezing. Hard.

They don't say much for a little while. Just hold hands under a cheap plastic table in a prison visitors centre.

And then Bridget starts to talk about little things. Her mouth talking small, while everything else about her spoke big.

Franky will let her do this. Even if it is for the selfish reason of wanting _more_. So she watches. Eyes on Bridget's face like it is a law textbook that she can learn back to front. Thumbs tracing unconscious patterns on the back of Bridget's hands.

'-I mean I won't pretend it wouldn't be interesting, it just wasn't something I'd ever thought I'd do.'

'You'd be a great lecturer Gidge., if that's what you decide you want.' Franky smiles softly, imagining it.

But Bridget turns her head to the side noncommittally, and when she looks back she is quick to say, 'Do you need anything?'

Franky just shakes her head, brown ponytail moving against her back. She doesn't.

And Bridget pauses again. Studying her. A little unreadable. And then she sits up a little straighter and starts telling Franky how she was thinking of changing the splashback in the kitchen.

'I'd sort of forgotten how annoying it was to clean. I got spoiled there for a while.'

Franky's laugh is diluted.

And then the officer on the door calls the last five minutes.

They both still.

Bridget tips her head back, chin raised, jaw set, and she speaks before Franky has found her words.

'Don't you fucking dare.'

And if this wasn't it. If this wasn't forever, then Franky would've tipped her head back and crowed, because _this_ was Gidget. And god, didn't she love her.

But this was it.

So instead she hiccups out this tiny laugh with a couple of tears sliding down her cheeks, leans forward in her seat and cups Bridget's face quickly, gently, with her hand.

Bridget speaks again, but only barely, like the words were being forced from her lips, 'Don't you even-'

Franky's hand is gone now. And it's just their fingers twisted together under the table. For some reason the image of Bridget rubbing her hand cream in every night before bed pops into Franky's brain.

'I want you to have the best life Gidget,' she smiles and raises her eyes to the ceiling briefly while a couple more tears drip down her cheeks, 'This is it, yeah?'

Bridget's posture is ramrod. Back straight up against the hard plastic of her chair. Franky knows she does not belong there.

The only change in Bridget's countenance is a quick tightening of her fingers when Franky's hand slips out of her own underneath the table.

Franky stands, pushing out her chair a little roughly.

Bridget stays seated. Expressionless. Legs crossed. Right hand hanging by her side. Left resting over her stomach.

Franky burns this image into her memory.

 _Burn it there. Keep her there. Remember this. Remember her._

She will not see Bridget Westfall ever again.

And as the other visitors start to stand, and the other prisoners start to make their way back through the doors, the hand hanging by Bridget's side comes up to her face, her fingers pressing gently over her mouth.

Franky turns her back. Walks a few steps.

And she hates herself. God she hates herself. But she cannot have Bridget think- because she _does._

So she turns back around quickly, hands flopping out at her sides, Bridget is standing now, still watching her.

Franky's voice is a little shaky when she speaks into a nearly empty visitors centre.

'You were it for me.'

She disguises what could be a quiet sob as a laugh, 'You didn't ever let me down.'

She nods like she can prove the exact truth of what she's saying with her own vehemence, 'I love ya. You're the only woman I've ever-' she chokes, presses her eyes shut tightly, makes fists with her hands by her sides and settles again for, 'I love you.'

Bridget takes one step forward.

Franky's vision is blurred by tears but she still notices. And then she has turned around and is wiping her nose on her sleeve and the heavy prison door shuts behind her with the smallest _click_ of finality.


	3. Chapter 3

' _I don't love you, but I always will. I always will.' Poison and Wine, The Civil Wars._

* * *

'Miss Macado, you've been charged with multiple drug offences, even while inside this prison.'

'So what?' Tina hisses like a snake poked into a corner.

The red recording light shines brightly on the camera that is set up in front of her.

The detective pauses before speaking again.

'Just calling your character into question is all. Now, Miss Macado, the staff that work here have reported a recent alliance with Joan Ferguson, who is currently missing. Do you have anything to say about that?'

Tina simply shrugs, her already crossed arms seeming to fold tighter around herself.

'Okay. Did Joan Ferguson ever ask you to lie to the police for her?'

'I do _not_ know what you are talking about.'

'Okay, well let me make it a little clearer then. Did Joan Ferguson either ask you, or pay you, to say you witnessed Franky Doyle murdering Iman Farah.'

'Are you deaf? I said I do _not_ know what you are talking about.'

'Okay, well we've had some new evidence in the case that makes Franky Doyle a less likely suspect, and she maintains she didn't do it.'

'What evidence? You have none.' Tina spits her words out as though she has been chewing on them individually for the last twenty minutes.

The Detective sighs, 'Miss Macado I'm going to paint you a picture here. Joan Ferguson _is_ missing. Now if you maintain that you know nothing about her disappearance then that means she's left you here with some pretty weighty charges to deal with. Are you aware that falsifying an official statement will add some serious time to your sentence? Not to mention the fact that if this goes to trial, and your statements are proven incorrect, then the maximum perjury sentence is an additional ten years?'

'The fuck? I had nothing to do with any of this, that white ass bitch-'

The Detective holds her hands in the air and leans forward, 'Woah. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Did you see Franky Doyle murder, or perform any act of violence against Iman Farah.'

Tina is silent. Sullen in her chair. The red light of record holds steady.

'Miss Macado?'

Tina sighs, her brows draw together and her upper lip curls but she spits out a, 'No.'

'So you didn't witness any interaction between Franky Doyle and Iman Farah that would give you reason to suspect Francesca killed Iman?'

'That is what I just _said_ isn't it?'

'Why did you lie before Miss Macado?'

Tina sits back against the plastic sit stiffly. She looks away from the camera with a jerk of her chin.

'Miss Macado? Did Joan Ferguson pay you to lie to the police?'

Tina's nostrils flare, 'That giant ass honkey played me.'

* * *

 _Go to Iman's. Find the photos. Find something._

 _Franky's heart near beats out of her chest as she walks up the stairs to Iman's house. Being out in broad daylight like this is unnerving her completely. She's kept most of her movements to a minimum, and always under the cover of darkness. Now she feels like the entire street is watching her._

 _She steps onto the cracked cement of the front patio and looks around wildly for anything a spare key would be hidden under. It's not like she can crawl through a window in broad daylight._

 _And then she hears music coming from inside the house._

 _ **FUCK.**_

 _Iman had roommates. Of course she did._

 _Jesus fucking fuck._

 _She half turns agitatedly, hands coming up to smooth at her hair, ready to leg it out of here._

 _But as she forces herself to breathe it occurs to her that she has nothing left. These are the only cards she has. It is this, in an attempt to prove her innocence, or a life on the run._

 _And so she swallows. Her throat is so constricted that this action is near impossible. She pulls her black jacket down over her hands, making sure all her tattoos are covered, and she raises her fist to knock at the front door and she prays to god that Iman's roommates haven't been paying close attention to the news lately._

 _She knocks._

 _She waits what feels like an age before the door heaves open._

 _She is faced with a man a little younger than herself, in trackies and a loose grey t-shirt. Roughly shaven, dark circles under his eyes._

' _Whass'up?'_

' _Hey um, I'm a friend of- was, I_ _ **was**_ _a friend of Iman's and uh seeing as she doesn't have any family I was wondering if I might take a look through her stuff? If now is good?'_

' _How'd you know her?'_

' _We were in the same therapy group a while back. I hadn't spoken to her for a while and then she uh- went inside.'_

 _He tilts his head at her like he is looking for a lie. Franky doesn't breathe. And then he shrugs, pulling the door open a little wider._

' _Guess so.'_

 _He disappears back into the hall, jerking his head at a room on his left._

' _That one is hers there. I wasn't sure what I could do with her stuff. We weren't room mates that long.'_

' _Thanks.' Franky calls after his retreating figure, heart going a million miles a minute in her ribcage._

 _She steps inside the room that used to be Iman's and she stands there for a second. Just looking. White bedspread, no posters or photos around. Just a few clothes. A guitar._

 _And then she goes for her life. Literally._

 _Long fingers file through everything in every draw, eyes scanning every piece of paper, looking for something, anything that could help her._

 _She is buried in the last drawer in the cheap, timber dresser and just about ready to tear her hair out when she finds a thick, worn envelope._

' _Oh please god, please, please, please.'_

 _Trembling fingers push the flap of the envelope up and she peers inside._

' _Oh thank fuck.'_

 _Her own face looks back at her. Just some random day on the street. And she is careful not to get her prints on any of them, but by the looks of it they're all there. All the photos Mike took of her. She is too busy trembling with relief to feel sickened at the thought of how long he had been watching her. The things he'd seen._

 _She slips the envelope back into the draw and quickly combs through the wardrobe. Lifts the bed just to confirm that she isn't leaving anything behind._

 _And thank god she did._

 _Underneath Iman's bed…a journal. Nothing fancy. Just a black bound book._

 _Franky flicks open the first page. A few words jump out at her._

 _ **Zoe. Group therapy. Maybe it will help.**_

 _Bridget had told her about this. Therapists asking their patients to write their thoughts down in a journal. A type of catharsis._

 _Frantically she flicks to the back._

 _Praying. Praying._

 _She starts to tremble as she reads the final entry._

' _He had a shrine built to her. To her instead of me. I was the one that loved him. Not her. If he had built one to me none of this would've happened. He learned. She will too.'_

 _She slips the journal back underneath Iman's mattress and pulls open the door._

 _She breaths deep. She wants to run now. Run for the front door and disappear. She found what she needed. But that is far too suspicious._

 _So instead she ignores her rising heart rate and walks further into the house. She sticks her head into the open plan living room, observes the containers of take out lying around and the sound of trashy day time television._

' _Hey uh, I think I'm done here. I've had a look through most of her stuff and I'll bring some boxes by in a few days to clear it.'_

 _Iman's roommate hardly looks her way, 'Yeah sweet, guess I can start looking for another housemate then.'_

 _And Franky bites her tongue and forces the words out, 'Hey listen, I found a guy's shirt with some of her stuff. Did she mention seeing anyone?'_

 _At this he turns._

 _Franky feels like she has thrown herself off a cliff and is in freefall._

 _But he just shrugs his shoulders, 'Some guy used to pick her up sometimes. She never said anything though. Don't reckon I would either though hey, guy had a face like melted wax. Fucking burns all over.'_

 _Franky nods quickly despite wanting to scream._

 _She jerks her thumb towards the door, 'Okay well uh, I'll see myself out. Be back in a few days. Thanks again.'_

 _And she slips out the front door and onto the street. The sun is bright in her eyes and the wind cuts through her jacket until goosebumps appear on her skin._

 _She fucking loves it._

* * *

She had gone to Fessler's place right after. Scared the living shit out of her by tapping on her back window. Had pleaded and pleaded with her not to call the cops. To just hear her out and that then she would hand herself over.

 _She has the photos Mike took of me in her bottom drawer. A journal underneath her bed confirming that she was mad with Mike about it. Zoe Taylor can confirm they knew one another, and Iman's housemate says he saw Mike pick her up a few times. Imogen this is real evidence. I know Shane will back my story about where the gun came from and how my DNA got on it. So if you can take this evidence to the police they'll have to look into it. Please Imogen. Please. I don't have any other choice, and I didn't do this._

And now she sits in a holding cell at the police station waiting to hear her fate. They'd brought her here from an isolation cell in Wentworth. She'd been there about a week she thinks.

The realist within her recognises a week as not long enough. She has been put through a system that did not assume _her_ innocence. Which took a day to convict her as guilty and months to come anywhere near investigating anything alternative to this.

Her ribcage feels like it is about to cave in when she understands that they haven't done it. The police haven't looked into anything at all and this is it. This is where she will lose.

She can see it. See herself slipping away into a sea of teal. Just a number. Behind bars. Not a person. No longer Franky with a sharp tongue and a desire to be better. But a criminal. _Doyle._ 40 years.

But she will sit up straight and she will not take any of this lying down. At this moment, she still exists.

So when the detectives walk through the door she lifts her wrists in their metal bracelets and places them on the table in front of her. She raises her chin, back straighter than a steel pole and she listens.

It does not immediately dawn on her when it is said.

She is still focussed on restraining herself from trying to fight her way out of this room.

And then she hears the words _free to go._

'You will still have to complete the amount of time left on your parole period. But aside from that Francesca, in light of new evidence, we don't have sufficient grounds to keep you here. The charges will be dropped.'

She stares at her wrists while the handcuffs are slipped off. Studies the skin underneath.

She stands as her things are brought in and placed in front of her. Wallet, phone, jewellery. The clothes she had been wearing when she was arrested.

By the time she looks up there is only one person left in the room with her. One of the detectives.

'Would you like us to call anyone for you?'

She shakes her head quickly.

'Nope.'

So he opens the door and she walks through and no one grabs her and shoves her back inside. She follows him through the halls and out into the main reception and no one gets in her way.

She nods in his direction and she walks through the doors onto the street and no sirens blare.

It's loud and cold.

She's free.

* * *

She pays the taxi driver and slips out onto the street.

It's almost evening, sun red and orange and pink over the backs of houses and all she has is a plastic bag full of her old clothes.

She walks up the driveway and looks around at what she _hopes_ is still her home.

She sits on the front step and looks out into the street and she does not know whether she wants to laugh or cry.

It isn't too long before a silver Volkswagen pulls into the drive.

Franky watches from the shadows of the veranda as Bridget checks her phone quickly, leans over to pull her bag up from the passenger side and slips out the car door.

Franky closes her eyes for a second when she hears the familiar clatter of heels on concrete as Bridget makes a quick little jog up the rest of the driveway.

Franky stands and Bridget stops, alarm and then shock written all over her face as she registers someone on her front step. Eyes wide and breathing a little more pronounced when she realises who it is.

They stand on the street for what feels like a lifetime.

Franky at the top of the steps, fading fire of sun in her eyes. Bridget on the pavement, skyline lit up behind her in a mixture of wispy clouds on a pink background and the crisp black outlines of houses.

Eventually Franky tries to smile. She is sure it comes out as a grimace. She spreads her arms wide.

 _Here I am._

And then she looks at the sky above her before she collapses into a complete and utter fucking mess.

Bridget's hands hang, keys dangling from her fingers and her voice is quiet when she does speak. A little shaky, a little desperate.

'Is this hello or goodbye?'

 _Are you coming back to me?_

It is a small knife in Franky's side that Bridget can no longer tell the difference between the two.

But she still cannot find her words. She wonders if there are any.

'Franky?'

This is hardly more than a whisper but the small note of desperation that had been in Bridget's voice before has taken over now.

Franky chokes on the words as they come out of her throat, like she is terrified that the second she says them out loud they will be taken from her. But they won't be. They won't be.

'I'm cleared Gidget. I'm free.'

Bridget's eyes search her face, blue flickering rapidly, looking for confirmation.

That knife in Franky's side twists as she realises that Bridget has possibly come to expect lies from her mouth.

 _ **Oh God.**_ _She will fix that._

And then Bridget is walking up her front steps, stepping right up to Franky, and automatically Franky's arms are around her waist, fingers splayed across the small of her back.

Jesus how long has she wanted to be able to hold her for?

Bridget's hands cup Franky's face, thumbs sliding over her cheeks. She pulls Franky's head down so their foreheads are touching.

Franky hums a little.

Bridget smiles. She's feeling everything at once. She is relief, exultation, hope, devastation and a tiny bit of fury.

And Franky is free.

* * *

 _How can coming back to this woman be both the easiest and the hardest thing she has ever done?_

They make it inside eventually, after standing on the front step and watching the sun go down.

Bridget had taken the plastic bag of Franky's things out of her hands wordlessly as they stepped in the door and disappeared into the laundry. Emerging with the slight rattling sound of the washing machine behind her.

And it is **easy** because there is literally not a single place that Franky would rather be than right here, in Bridget Westfall's kitchen, watching her over the island bench.

And it is so **hard** because she has never _wanted_ her this badly. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to be held by her. Wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to taste her.

But at the moment she has lost the right to just take what she wants. So she will let Bridget come to her.

She does. Thank God. Steps around the bench and wraps her arms loosely around Franky's waist. Presses her lips gently against Franky's. Franky doesn't notice the tear that slides down her own cheek. She is too busy feeling awe at the way her fingers are able to immerse themselves in the short hair at the back of Bridget's head. Is too busy opening her own mouth and praying to God that Bridget will kiss her back the way she knows she can.

By some small miracle, she does.

And _oh_ hasn't Franky missed the taste of her, the warmth of her, the languid way in which she moves her tongue. The way that she can enthral Franky just by simply kissing her.

They are both breathing a little heavier when Bridget pulls back gently, taking one of Franky's hands in her own, kissing the knuckles gently and with all the composure in the world asking, 'Time for a chat?'

Franky follows Bridget to the couch, feels warmth spread through her chest when Bridget sits first and spreads her bent knees, showing Franky that there is space for her to sit back against her if she wants to.

And it is not a position that they have taken often. Bridget against the arm of the lounge with Franky leaning back in between her legs. But tonight it is necessary.

'So,' Bridget's voice is soft, _home_ , 'tell me everything.'

And Franky does. She tells her all of it while Bridget's fingers trace soft patterns up and down her arms.

When she finishes they enjoy the silence for a moment. Each focussing on the solid warmth of the other.

'Gidget?'

Bridget's voice is low, next to her ear and Franky thrills at being able to feel the vibration from Bridget's chest through her back, 'Mmm?'

'What happens now?'

'What do you want to happen now?'

And Franky turns a little so she can look over her shoulder at Bridget's face. She looks Bridget in the eyes unwaveringly, hopefully.

'Us.' _And oh she will prove it. She will. If given the chance._

Bridget's mouth quirks up the tiniest bit at the sides, but she closes her eyes. Franky feels the air leave her.

When her eyes do open she tilts her head on the slightest angle. Her voice is soft.

'It'll take some time, yeah? There's a lot to deal with. For me too.'

Franky just nods and then offers the only thing she can think of immediately. Even though the idea makes her sick to her stomach.

'Do you want me to sleep in the guest room? For a while?'

'Do you want to?'

The words run from Franky's mouth before she has a chance to catch them and lock them in, 'I just wanna hold ya.'

And there is the shadow of a psychologists room full of anger, disappointment and heartbreak between them still.

Bridget has heard these words before.

She stands. Slips out from behind Franky and stands in front of the couch. She considers the woman in front of her carefully and then she nods softly.

'Then hold me.'

Bridget does not say that beneath it all she wants the same thing.

Instead she turns the lights off and slips down the hall to their bedroom.

Franky will figure it out when they slide into bed and Bridget rolls into her immediately. One arm sliding underneath Franky to wrap around her waist. Head resting on Franky's chest. One bare leg slipping between Franky's for as much skin on skin contact as possible.

Suddenly freedom does not mean the ability to run and run without ever hitting a wire fence or a wall with barbed wire at the top.

Right now freedom just means holding Bridget Westfall.

* * *

Author Note: Y'all are like, 'But didn't Franky just get locked away for 40 years!?' Yes. Parallel story lines. I wanted to explore the dangerously different dichotomies within Franky side by side, based on what happens to her. So from now on even chapters are in a universe in which Franky is convicted. Odd chapters are in a universe where she is free.

But which universe is the real one?


End file.
